


Kill Me, Love Me

by Black_Calliope



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-09
Updated: 2012-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Black_Calliope/pseuds/Black_Calliope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Tommy wants everything. And then more and more, until the horizon will be nothing but a golden line on a finger and the sunset a pale reflection on sweaty sheets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill Me, Love Me

Sharing.

A word that Tommy was never able to fully digest.

Sharing.

Some use to say that sharing is caring, but usually no one gets anything good from it. Mostly just trouble and problems with unpleasant effects on one's personal ego.

So that's what people should realize. Not to mention that the concept of property is one of the first things people learn at birth. 'My' Dad, 'my' mom, 'my' teddy bear and so on in a crescendo of objects, people and concepts that align, going to form the circle of our being. Everything that in its whole goes drawing that fragile bubble that’s called life and that keeps us anchored to our sanity and to this land.

So somebody should explain why, in a world focused on possession, some people still dare to talk about sharing. And not only the kind inspired by religion or good heart, but the kind that leads to share a house, a friend, or - even worse - a lover.

Dividing joy and pain and stuff like that. Tsk, a very pale and poor excuse to justify the presence of a disease that simply isn’t part of human nature.

And that's why Tommy can’t let this opportunity slip through his fingers. He’ll not let the butterfly fly away just to watch her stand out, free and shining, against the never ending blue. Oh no, he won't.

Not now that he’s so close he can almost touch her. Beautiful, sparkling, bright as the thin line between sky and horizon on the Mexican sea, perfect as a sneaky hug on a cold night in London.  
  
He’ll try to catch her, tear her away from the yellow European sun that is attracting her far away, to fields that aren’t hers, to melodies that resonate in square rooms.

Because, come on, who the hell needs boxes when you can live in a cylinder? An endless beginning of days and music, of notes and months. One hour after the other, small bits of promises that smell of something new, something that yes, it's there, if you only want to seize it.

Because even the subtler chills can be sharp as razors and leave permanent marks. And if it’s true that there’s no sunset without horizon, then there isn’t half without everything.

And Tommy wants everything. And then more and more, until the horizon will be nothing but a golden line on a finger and the sunset a pale reflection on sweaty sheets.

That's what drives him to walk in front of that door, to cross that threshold, into the dark and magical antrum of the butterfly. And this is what drives him to pull out that record and press the number ten on what could be the scepter of power, but in reality is just a simple remote control.

Sharing.

Stab the butterfly.

Sharing.

Stab the butterfly.

Sharing.

Stab the butterfly.

Like a broken record on the surface of a too well-known melody, the silence screams in the background.

Oh, the butterfly has been stabbed. The butterfly is breaking, her wings falling down like curtains on eyes too blind to see what’s always been there.

And Tommy reaches out with his hands to gather what remains of this being, to heal what he himself has broken, the whole that now is dual because it’s no longer alone.

Immobilized by thin pins, trapped under a beautiful and fragile glass case, so will remain these magnificent and graceful wings. A glass case of thorns and gold, because that's possession, because this is the only and real way to express love.  
  
 **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for [this prompt](http://black-calliope.livejournal.com/5269.html).


End file.
